"A woman's place is in the shadow of men, Razia," her father's voice echoed in her mind, rough and unyielding like the coarse rope he used to tie the cattle. "A man's anger is his right. Your job is to endure, to bow, to stay silent."

Razia had believed those words for most of her life. She'd clung to them like a lifeline through the sting of her husband's fists and the scalding humiliation of being thrown out of her own home. Even here, in the grand haveli of her master and his wife, those words had been her compass. They justified every command barked at her, every cruel glance, and every punishment Seher had endured in Saad's hands. Who was she to interfere?

And her subconscious mind told her, that all of this was because of Ayesha's interference in their marriage, if there were no Ayesha- Saad and Seher would be happy.

But now, staring at the body of Ayesha—the mistress she had hated with all her heart—those words felt like a curse.

Had she cursed this young woman?

Tears fell through her eyes.

Guilt.

"I am sorry"

She whispered the words tying Ayesha's scattered hair back, softly caressing her forehead. Holding Musa to her chest but he fought crawling towards his mother and Razia let him. As he called her out, trying to wake her up pulling at her hand.

The one year old kept on wailing, "Maaa". And Razia's heart ached. This wasn't how things were supposed to go.

This little baby didn't deserve this life. Ayesha didn't deserve this.

Razia had always blamed Ayesha. But now she could see who was the problem all along.

The man who couldn't choose. The man who was too greedy and heartless. 

How could he steal his own son's mother from him?

Saad was cruel...

Seher had been right. He was just like all the men out there, like Razia's father and husband.

Ayesha reminded her of herself, discarded. But atleast she was alive when her husband threw her out for another woman.

The room was suffocatingly silent, save for the ragged sound of Razia's breathing. Ayesha lay sprawled on the marble floor, her once-vivid eyes empty, her body still warm. Razia's hands trembled as she knelt beside the lifeless woman, unsure of what to do, unsure of what she could do.

How had it come to this?

She remembered the contempt that had burned in her chest whenever she saw Ayesha's delicate silks flutter in the courtyard or heard her laughter echo down the halls. Ayesha had seemed untouchable, a shining emblem of everything Razia could never have. She had hated her for the sin of being wanted—of being the woman the master chose over his loyal wife, of disrupting the fragile peace of the haveli. In Ayesha she saw the image of her husband's choice and she hated her more.

But now, as Razia stared at the blood pooling around Ayesha, she saw the truth. Ayesha had been just like her. Used. Controlled. Silenced. Discarded.

Her father's words came back again, but this time they felt like iron bars, not guidance. "Bow. Endure. Stay silent."

Razia's tears came fast, hot, and unrelenting. She wept not just for Ayesha, but for herself, for every woman who had ever been crushed under the weight of those words. She wept for the years she had spent hating the wrong person, blind to the real enemy.

That woman was never the problem. Ayesha was never the problem. 

A soft whimper broke through her grief. Razia turned, her gaze landing on the small boy curled in the corner who had crawled away from her arms, his dark eyes wide with terror. He was onr, his tiny hands clutching his knees. Ayesha's son.

The boy was the master's heir. Razia knew what that meant. If she left him here, the master's anger would fall on him next. Ayesha had been the first to die, but she wouldn't be the last.

Her father's voice rose again, "She must have done something to anger her husband", but Razia silenced it with a sharp intake of breath. She rose to her feet, her hands trembling but determined. They will not bow anymore, she thought. I will not endure this any longer.

It felt inhumane.

She felt disgusted by the blood on her hands.

Wrapping the boy in Ayesha's shawl, Razia whispered, "Hush, beta. Mumma is asleep. Let's not disturb her."

Her heart thundered in her chest as she stepped over Ayesha's lifeless form and toward the door. The night outside was dark and unwelcoming, but it was freedom. It was life.

As she clutched the boy close and took her first step into the unknown, Razia made a silent vow: she would not let him grow up in the shadow of men like her father, her husband, or her master. She would give him something she had never been allowed—hope. Away from all those whispers, this young man won't be trapped in this haveli.

____

"Chai kidhar hai meri?" Jahangir Shaikh's voice roared through the crumbling walls of the house, shaking the fragile silence that had settled over the evening. His wife, draped in a worn-out scarf, hurried to him, trembling. She held the cup of tea with shaky hands, her teary eyes cast downward as though afraid to meet his.

He snatched the cup from her, his glare sharp enough to cut through steel. She hesitated before speaking, her voice almost breaking, "Maardogey usse? (Will you kill her?)"

Jahangir froze mid-sip, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Kiski taraf hai tu? (Whose side are you in?)"

She swallowed hard, tears pooling in her eyes. "Kiski taraf hona chahiye? (You tell me)"

The cup shattered against the floor, sending tea spilling across the room like blood. Jahangir stood, towering over her. "Will you talk back to me now?"

Her breath hitched, but something flickered in her eyes—something long buried. "Yes."

His brows knitted in disbelief. Never had she dared to defy him, not in thirty years. "Kya bola tuney? (What did you say?)" he asked, his voice quieter now, more dangerous.

Her tears stopped, replaced by a quiet resolve. "Thirty years, Jahangir," she whispered. Her voice carried the weight of every bruise, every scar he had inflicted. "Thirty years I endured your fists, your words, your hatred. For what? For Seher. Because she deserved to live, even if I couldn't."

His confusion turned to rage. "Bakwas band kar! (Shut the f' up)" he yelled, taking a step forward. But she didn't flinch. For the first time, she stood her ground.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the hem of her loose shalwar, pulling it up just enough to reveal the scar on her leg—a deep, jagged burn mark. Her voice cracked, her tears returning, but her words were steady. "Do you remember this? I was pregnant. You burnt me because your dinner wasn't warm enough."

Jahangir faltered, but only for a moment. "Aur?" he spat, defiance in his tone. "God will forgive me. But He won't forgive you for speaking to your husband like this."

She laughed then, a bitter sound that carried years of suppressed pain. From behind her, she revealed a lighter, her fingers clutching it tightly. "Better than spending my remaining years in this hell."

His eyes darted to the charpoy beneath him, the fabric of his kurta dark and damp—soaked in petrol. Panic flickered in his eyes, but his pride kept him standing. "Pagal ho gayi hai? You wouldn't dare— (Are you crazy? ...)"

"Try me," she hissed, her voice sharp and cold. "You think I loved you? You think I endured this for you?" She stepped closer, her presence suffocating, towering despite her small frame. "No, Jahangir. I endured it for Seher. And you think I'll let you lay a hand on her? Stone her to death because of your twisted pride?" Her voice cracked, her pain bleeding through her words. "No, Jahangir. You will burn in this house. You will die, not her."

His bravado cracked, desperation seeping into his voice. "God will not forgive you. You'll burn in hell for this."

The lighter clicked in her hand, the small flame dancing in her trembling grip. She smiled, tears streaming down her face. "Then I'll see you there."

___

"Fire!!! General's house is on fire!" A shout echoed through the night, and Seher's heart skipped a beat. Her eyes widened in horror as she struggled against the chains that bound her. Her mother...

Her voice cracked, raw with panic, "Please, someone! Save her! She's inside!" The fear coursing through her veins was unbearable, each breath ragged, her hands trembling as she pulled at the cold iron digging into her skin. The chain burned against her wrists, but it was nothing compared to the fire burning in her chest, in her soul.

The thick scent of smoke seeped into her lungs, and the orange glow of flames lit up the horizon, illuminating the house she had once called home—her prison, her place of torment. The thought of her mother, the only person who had ever loved her, trapped inside that inferno, sent a gut-wrenching wave of terror over Seher.

The guards stood there, paralyzed for a moment, watching the fire climb higher, engulfing the windows. One of them muttered under his breath, but it barely registered in Seher's frantic mind.

"Let me go!" she cried, desperate, voice cracking with raw anguish. "She'll die in there! Please, please!"

They exchanged a glance, hesitation written in their eyes, but one guard finally spoke. "We will go check."

Seher didn't wait. As they turned to run towards the burning house, she felt a surge of helplessness so strong, it almost suffocated her.

Her mother—the woman who had silently endured her father's cruelty, who had always been her shield, her protector—was still inside. And the thought of her, trapped in the flames, filled Seher's soul with a cold dread.

And then, a figure appeared in the haze, running toward her. A woman, breathless, holding a key in her hand. She approached Seher, unlocking the chains and pulling her to her feet. But Seher, consumed by a frenzy of panic, barely registered the presence. She turned, her feet already carrying her toward the house that was devouring itself in fire.

"Seher, it's me!" The voice was familiar, full of desperation and love, but Seher's mind was too clouded with fear to recognize it. She barely noticed as the woman stepped in front of her, pulling the veil from her face.

Seher stopped in her tracks, her heart skipping a beat. It was her mother.

Her mother, standing there, bloodied and bruised, but alive. Alive.

A wave of relief crashed over Seher, quickly followed by a gut-wrenching guilt. She reached for her mother, her arms trembling as she embraced her, holding her tightly.

"I killed him," her mother whispered through her tears.

The words cut deep, but they didn't matter. He was still her father, still the man who had ruined them both, and yet... Seher could feel a strange sense of relief, like a weight had been lifted. He was gone, and they were free.

Seher pulled back slightly, her hands trembling as she cupped her mother's face. "But... you're alive..." The words came out in a broken whisper, laced with grief and confusion.

Her mother smiled through her tears, the faintest hint of hope in her eyes. "Let's go," she said softly, voice steady despite everything.

"Where?" Seher asked, still dazed, her mind struggling to catch up with the reality unfolding before her.

Her mother took her hand, guiding her gently away from the ruins of their past. "Kisi darya kinare... Seher ke waqt, Saahil ke paas," she repeated, her voice calm but laced with a lifetime of pain and hope.

A slow smile began to spread across Seher's face as the words sank in. A place of peace. A place where they could start over. Where her mother's sacrifice would mean something, where they could heal.

The tears that had been threatening to spill now flowed freely, but this time, they weren't just tears of loss—they were tears of release, of the first breath of freedom. Seher leaned into her mother, her heart full of gratitude and sorrow, as the two of them walked away from the burning ruins of their past.

"I should have done this years ago", her mother said as they ran past the bridge and ducked, when a car passed them.

It stopped.

They both looked at each other terrified, "Tell them to call the doctor", her mother made an excuse thinking it was a stranger.

Abdullah exited the car with Saahil, "What are you doing here?"

Seher's mother spoke up, "Give us your car, we don't have time, they will start looking for Seher."

"Will he survive?"

Her mother shook her head, not able to say it aloud.

As Seher got into the car, her mother didn't get in, "Mother, get in."

"If I disappeared, they would know it wasn't an accident, I have to go back." She looked at the bruised man in the driver's seat, "I believe you will take care of her, now go."

Her mother's voice was steady, but her eyes, filled with an ocean of unsaid things, betrayed her. Seher wanted to argue, to insist her mother come with her, but the weight of her mother's decision was clear. She had chosen to stay behind to let Seher escape so she could live.

"Mother, please!" Seher's voice cracked, her desperation spilling out. She reached for the door, but her mother stopped her with a firm hand.

"No, Seher. You must go now. There's no time left." Her mother's voice was quiet, almost serene, but it held a finality. "You have a future. I've lived my life. It's your turn to be free."

Seher wanted to scream, to beg, to fight, but the words stuck in her throat. Her mother was giving her the one thing she had been deprived of for so long—freedom.

The car engine roared to life, and Saahil, who had been silently watching, glanced at Seher in the rearview mirror. His face was hard to read.

"Don't look back," her mother said, her voice barely above a whisper as Seher's eyes filled with tears. "Promise me you won't look back, Seher. Promise me you'll make a life worth living."

Seher nodded, her throat tight with emotion. She could hardly breathe as she finally pulled away from her mother, her heart breaking with each passing second. The car sped down the road, and her mother's figure grew smaller in the rearview mirror, until it disappeared completely.

For a long moment, Seher couldn't speak. The silence in the car felt like a weight pressing down on her chest. The sound of the engine was the only thing that filled the space.

"Where are we going?" Seher finally whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Somewhere faraway."